


It's only entrapment if you aren't looking for it

by celli-inkblots (thebeespatella)



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Feels, Attempted Murder, BISEXUALITY IS REAL, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Bisexual Male Character, Blow Jobs, Case Fic, Daddy Issues, Emotional Constipation, Everyone Is Gay, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluid Sexuality, Hispanic Character, Homophobia, It's For a Case, M/M, Making Out, Shooting, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-08 11:34:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4303293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebeespatella/pseuds/celli-inkblots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You don’t think the bullet-proof vest will give something away?” Silence. “Besides, it does nothing for my figure.”</p><p>Olivia smiled despite herself. “All right. You realize this might mean you have to testify?”</p><p>“Not my first rodeo, Sergeant. I know the drill. I’ll see you…soon,” Barba said. </p><p>Olivia nodded shortly, and they both stepped out of the back of the truck. “Oh, and—don’t forget this.” She handed him the key card for Amaro’s room, then placed a simple, silver wedding band in his palm, and he slipped it onto his left hand. It felt strange, heavy against his skin. “I now pronounce thee husband and husband,” she said with a wry twist to her mouth. “Now let’s get us a serial killer before the cake arrives.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even as I wrote this, I rolled my eyes a little at the premise, and then I realized that I’m writing about SVU, a show in which plausibility and reality are optional.
> 
> Please note that this case focuses on an extremely homophobic suspect who threatens violent rape, and that there are descriptions of corpses bearing signs of sexual assault.

#

 _In the criminal justice system, sexually based offenses are considered especially heinous. In New York City, the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit. These are their stories._  

#

 

“I hate this,” Rafael grumbled into his coffee. He’d lost count of how many cups of this godawful shit he’d drunk in the past six hours, but—desperate times, desperate measures. It didn’t stop him from making faces for Olivia’s benefit.

“Nobody likes stakeouts, Barba,” she said for the umpteenth time, eyes not leaving the monitor in front of her.

“No, I mean all of it. Why do I have to be here?”

“1PP—”

“I know what 1PP said,” he said, waving his hand impatiently. “I just resent being appointed your babysitter.”

“You’re just mad you won’t get to try this case in court.”

“That too.”

This time, Olivia did put down her headset for a moment and looked at him. “Alex Cabot is a great lawyer, and she’s doing this as a favor. She’ll get the victims the justice they deserve.”

Rafael huffed. “ _Only_ if we catch the killer red-handed, with more than circumstantial evidence. Of course it all makes sense to _us,_ but this is beyond putting all our eggs in one basket. If he catches on…”

“Welcome to SVU,” she said wryly.

“Yes, I’m pissed that my duty as SVU’s nanny-of-the-week means I have to recuse myself from the prosecution, but there’s also the fact that this is a hail-fucking-Mary if I’ve ever seen one,” he sighed. “Olivia—”

Rollins snapped, “Well, it’s what we’ve got right now, so y’all need to stop yammering,”

Rafael eyed her critically. Clearly she was worried that Amaro was undercover, more anxious than usual. Her lips were pressed together in a thin line, staring at the screen so intently he got nervous that she’d forget to blink.    

She had a right to worry, too. This was a high-stakes play. For weeks they’d been tracking a killer who targeted committed, gay male couples. His M.O., as far as they’d observed, was to wait until a particularly perfect specimen came along—as a security guard for a third-party contracting firm, he was shipped out regularly to various high-end establishments around the city. He’d watch all day, all night, for a promising target, then his accomplice would slip a camera into the room so that they both could watch and wait for the perfect moment to strike, a moment of complete vulnerability.

All his victims ended up tied up separately on the bed, facing each other. While the C.O.D. was technically exsanguination (he liked his crime scenes bloody), the stab wounds honestly sounded relatively mild compared to the sexual abuse both bodies endured ante-mortem. Rafael closed his eyes and shook his head slightly to rid himself of the mental images, and refocused on the screen. Amaro was pacing, waiting.

They had captured one accomplice—not the sharpest spoon in the box, but that’s how the suspect liked them—and exchanged information, testimony, and his participation in this little set-up for manslaughter one and conspiracy instead of murder one, and now they had a name: Joseph Meyers; 41; angry, alone; with a rap sheet littered with low-level charges that had been plead down or dropped. Rafael hated it all. Then again, plea deals were a strategy, and this was a good one. The theory was that seeing his former accomplice betray him by becoming the perfect target of his crimes would definitely ratchet the timeline up a little, and give them the evidence they needed to arrest Meyers without putting Amaro in harm’s way.

Well, any more harm than absolutely _necessary_ , Rafael amended. It wasn’t enough that his job presented more than enough risk, but the Amaro either had the impulse control of a thirteen-year-old, or a death wish, or both. Getting in harm’s way seemed to be his specialty, always standing as a human shield to take bullets on the job, for the job, for his children.

“Okay, stand-by. 2100,” Olivia murmured into her radio, just as her cellphone rang. “Benson.”

Both he and Rollins watched intently as the conversation progressed. “Fin—he _what_? What do you mean he just ‘skipped’—do I employ you to just sit on your ass?” Then Olivia Benson, always the master of self-control, closed her eyes and let out a long breath. “I’m sorry, Fin, that was totally uncalled for and unfair. You did your job. I just can’t believe…no, I get it. Sometimes I wish they weren’t so damn incompetent. All right. I guess it’s back to the precinct for us. Again, I’m sorry—hey. Thanks.” She hung up with a sad, tense little smile. “Guess who decided to skip town?”

“McCoy, our star witness?” Olivia nodded. “Fucking _asshole_ ,” Rollins said through clenched teeth.

“Skip town?” Rafael echoed, frowning.

“Yep. So we call this off, we’re not catching Meyers tonight.” Suddenly she looked very tired and very worn in a way that Rafael had rarely seen. Benson—whose allergy to sitting still was second only to Amaro’s—was giving up?

“No,” he said, before he realized his mouth was moving. “No, I’ll do it.”

“No,” Olivia said, snapping back to reality. “Absolutely not, Barba.”

“Why not? I’m the only one that the suspect hasn’t seen in interviews or on crime scenes, we’ve got the whole thing set up—”

“You’re a civilian,” Olivia said loudly. “You have absolutely no training to deal with the situation.”

“Well, I guess that’s why the cop and the SWAT team in the room will come in handy,” Rafael retorted. He was on his territory now—arguing. “Besides, McCoy wasn’t trained either, but you wanted to send him in.”

“It’s different—”

“How? The risk is essentially the same—”

“McCoy was a lowlife who was going to rot in prison anyway,” Olivia burst out. “You’re—you’re an ADA.”

“Yeah, Barba, Meyers is serious, this is a bad idea,” Rollins chimed in.

Rafael raised an eyebrow and sat back. “I see. So some people are more equal than others.”

“You know that’s not I meant,” Olivia said, and glared at him, hand going to her radio, but he put his hand over hers.

“I won’t be trying this case anyway,” he said quickly, trying to get his point across. “Amaro’s in there already, and we know Meyers has his eye on him because we made sure that he saw the staged wedding photo, you’ve shoved Carisi into a tiny closet with, like, five other guys with riot shields and fucking huge guns, and I don’t think it’s worth turning back now. I know this case as well as you do.”

Olivia looked at him silently. After a pause, she just said, “Six.”

“What?”

“Six other guys. In that closet with Carisi.”

Rafael bit his lip but looked steadily back at her. He knew what he was suggesting was stupid. But the power to prosecute had been taken from him for the moment, and he resented being useless, dead weight, just because a couple of bureaucrats had splintery sticks shoved up their asses. He was tired of watching.

“I don’t like it,” Rollins declared, crossing her arms, and looking at Olivia pointedly, as if to nudge her sergeant into agreeing with her.

“Thanks for your input,” Rafael said before he could help himself. “I don’t like Meyers running around the city killing innocent people.”

Then Olivia did that thing where she pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. It was all at once a challenge and utter exasperation. “Barba…you’re an idiot.”

“Noted.”

“But I guess I’m just as stupid, because I think might actually work. Get into the back.”

“Sarge!”

Despite Rollins’s sputtering, he jumped out of the front of the truck into the back where the equipment was stored. “Take your briefcase, your jacket…what are you doing?”

“You don’t think the bullet-proof vest will give something away?” Silence. “Besides, it does nothing for my figure.”

Olivia smiled despite herself. “All right. You realize this might mean you have to testify?”

“Not my first rodeo, Sergeant. I know the drill. I’ll see you…soon.”

Olivia nodded shortly, and they both stepped out of the back of the truck. “Oh, and—don’t forget this.” She handed him the key card for Amaro’s room, then placed a simple, silver wedding band in his palm, and he slipped it onto his left hand. It felt strange, heavy against his skin. “I now pronounce thee husband and husband,” she said with a wry twist to her mouth. “Now let’s get us a serial killer before the cake arrives.”

She climbed back into the truck and Rafael squared his shoulders. He heard the crackle of the radio, Olivia announcing. “At the ready. ‘Husband’ is entering the building.”

Worst code name ever, Rafael thought as he swept into the elegant lobby. Meyers was stationed by the revolving doors. It was strange to make eye contact, however briefly, with a face he’d only seen in mug shots—blue eyes just as dead and cold as in the photo, although he’d lost the beard. There was no mistaking him.

The elevator was covered in gilded mirrors. Nobody had to see themselves in that many dimensions, surely. The doors closed quietly, and Rafael couldn’t help but be reminded of prison doors sliding shut. Not for you, he reminded himself. As the elevator climbed to the penthouse (only the best for the NYPD, thank you very much) he played with the wedding ring. It wasn’t something he ever thought he’d be wearing, even if it were just a ruse. It was rare that he let his anxiety push through his skin—court was like poker, and when every day is all in, he couldn’t afford to have a tell. But still he fidgeted now, twisting the ring back and forth. Where had it come from? Were he and McCoy the same ring size?

Finally, he was walking on plush carpet to Amaro’s door. Quiet slide and click of the key card, and he pushed the door open slowly. Amaro whirled around from where he’d been looking out the window, then opened his mouth to speak.

The little alcove of an entryway was the planted camera’s only blind spot, so it was critical he take advantage of it. Rafael put his finger to his lips, then nodded in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. The show must go on, he tried to say with his eyes, but could only hope that Amaro got it. They always misunderstood each other, almost like they were trying.

Olivia was right. He was an idiot.  

He shucked off his shoes and socks and left them neatly next to Amaro’s in the entryway. Then he walked into the light.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said. “You know how work is.”

“I do,” Amaro said quietly.

He walked to the dresser and slung his jacket over a chair and dropped his briefcase, more to keep doing things with his hands, any excuse not to look up. This had been a great idea, in theory. But now he was confronted with the reality of what he had to do, how to make Meyers incensed enough to walk into the trap. He sympathized with McCoy for a second.

None of the bodies had been fully clothed when they’d found them.

It wasn’t that Amaro wasn’t an attractive man—in fact, that was exactly the problem. Rafael had wanted to fuck him the instant they’d met, had bit down on the attraction and shook hands instead of dropping to his knees. Unusual? Yes. It wasn’t often you met a stranger you wanted to drag into a bathroom stall on sight. But he figured he’d get over it—it wasn’t high school.

Amaro was persistent, though, and let his temper run his mouth, kept his shirtsleeves rolled up and his forearms taut and exposed, cornered Rafael in elevators and questioned his loyalty to the law and none of it should have made it worse; it should have cooled Rafael’s lust to a stone cold absolute zero, but instead, something had caught aflame, and now Rafael was fucked. It didn’t help that every conversation, eye contact, even, had been like snagging a hangnail on your clothes.

Since Amaro had agreed to testify against his father, the sharp edges of their relationship had worn away a little, like the corners of a bar of soap. Something, in between Rafael talking far too much about his own father, Amaro forgiving him for putting the family on the stand (even though he had every right not to), had been like water and worn hands, cleaning and washing the suspicion and ill will away.

He’d joined the squad for coffee or drinks, and sometimes it was just the two of them, and their exchanges were calmer, more relaxed. But still—that didn’t make them great friends, much less anything more. He’d always had a problem with faking it, and he sure as shit knew that Amaro wasn’t the best at it either. Face like an open book, heart practically jumping off his sleeve.

Out of the corner of his eye, Rafael could see the little camera in the corner, at a perfect angle to capture the bed in its entirety. And then suddenly the crime scene photos flashed in his mind, followed by the image of a set of cold, watching eyes, and he set his jaw with new determination. This was the danger of a triple-cross—he’d let the temptation to touch Nick get in the way of reasoning, and the idea of having to pretend this had all been pretend, indulging himself in this fantasy even though there was a suspect at stake—

He let it go in a long breath. He could deal with it afterwards. Case now, feelings later. The clock was ticking. He couldn’t dally any longer or they’d give themselves away. “I’m sorry,” he said again, for lack of imagination.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Amaro said, pulling him by the hand so their bodies were flush together.

Jesus Christ.

Rafael drew him close, close enough that he could whisper, “McCoy got away.” Amaro’s arms tensed around him. Rafael held back a groan at how good the closeness felt. Blanket effect, that’s all it was. They put jackets on dogs that are afraid of thunderstorms, he reminded himself sternly. _Biology_ , Barba. “But we almost have Meyers, so I…volunteered.”

Amaro jerked back, surprised, and Rafael hastily cupped Amaro’s jaw, to try keep up the charade. He could feel the muscles there working underneath the weight of the ring.

“Are you stupid?” Amaro hissed into his ear, leaning back in. “Does Liv know about this?”

“How do you think I got the keycard, and the _ring_?” he hissed back. “Who’s _stupid_ now?” Something, something about this man stuck under his skin like burrs, like nettles, erased all his wit and pushed him back onto the playground.

“Okay,” Amaro said.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” Amaro repeated, with a note that might have been resignation, which was always _so_ encouraging.

Later, he was going to buy himself some very, very good scotch.

He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. Then he almost choked when he felt slightly chapped lips brush against his own, the only warning he received before Amaro cradled the back of his head gently and kissed him, deeply, intimately. Rafael tried to relax, or at least not choke to death on his own spit. That’s right. Amaro was the alpha male. If he let him take charge, everything would be fine. So he let himself be held close, let Nick lick into his mouth and back him against the dresser chair so he had to scrabble for purchase, trying to find the table’s flat surface.

“Hey, hey,” Nick said, in a soft voice that Rafael was sure he used with his children. It was calm, warm, reassuring. “I’ve got you. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried,” he responded automatically, and Nick smiled crookedly at him.

“ _No te preocupes, Rafi._ ”

He raised an eyebrow. “ _Vas a llarme ‘Rafi’ ahora?_ Very cute.”

“Whatever makes you happy, _querido._ ”

Rafael eyed him for a moment, trying to ignore the rising heat in his stomach. The affection was so—natural, with a tenderness he’d never have predicted. Was Amaro mocking him? There’s no way he’d know anything about Rafael’s private life, but then again, goddamn _detectives_ —

“What did I just say, hmm?” Nick said, nuzzling him a little, dropping light kisses on his eyelids, forehead, jawline. “I can hear you thinking from here.”

I can figure it out later, Rafael reasoned with himself, I always figure it out—and he gave in. He pulled off his suit jacket, careful to drape it across the back of a chair to avoid any more wrinkles than necessary. Then he clasped his hands behind Nick’s neck and kissed him back, more easily than he’d ever imagined, with languorous swipes of the tongue and playful nips with his teeth. They walked back until Nick’s knees hit the bed, and Rafael stood for a moment.

Nick stretched and sprawled out, an easy smile on his face. “Come on,” he urged, taking the liberty of loosening his own tie and undoing the first two buttons of his shirt. Rafael felt an irrational spike of irritation. That was his job. “I want you.”

“Undress me,” he answered quietly. Nick sat up, and silently began to work on his tie, pulling the silk gently from the collar, pushed his vest to the floor and his suspenders off his shoulders, then moved to his cuffs, scooting back to place the loose cufflinks neatly on the nightstand.

He pulled his own shirt off, then crawled to Nick, let his fantasies guide him. He pulled him up roughly by his tie. “‘ _I want you_?’ You have no fucking idea.” He let Nick worry about his own tie and shirt as his hands went directly for Nick’s belt, the snap of the leather sharp as he pulled it from the belt loops. The easy slide of a button, zip, Nick lifted his hips to let him pull his trousers off, and then he had Amaro essentially naked in this bed, boxers doing nothing for modesty.

Rafael resolutely refused to look below the belt, but indulged himself and ran a slow finger from Nick’s clavicle down, noting the shallow breathing. This is all artificial, he reminded himself, digging his nails into his palm. Still, it didn’t mean that the long expanse of skin didn’t appeal as much as it had in every heated fever dream. The dip of his hips into the elastic of his underwear, a few bruises spread across his shoulder and side. Rafael pressed his hand unthinkingly to the fading purple marks, only pulling back when Nick recoiled.

“Are you always bruised?” he asked quietly.

Nick shrugged, a one-shouldered affair in studied carelessness. “It’s part of the job.”

Then, Nick reached two hands up to splay across Rafael’s chest, his stomach. He suddenly felt horridly self-conscious, imagining what he must look like on camera to Rollins, to Liv, and in unforgiving three-dimensional gracelessness to Nick.

“You’re beautiful.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

Nick’s voice went very solemn. “There’s only one girl I say that to.”

“I hope you can tell—I’m almost exploding with the effort required not to roll my eyes,” Rafael said.

Nick withdrew his hands. “Are you seriously always like this? Girlfriends, boyfriends—are you just a smartass all the time? What’s your problem?”

Mostly that you’re stupid hot and I’m nervous and I wish I had a drink right now. “Probably that I don’t get laid enough,” Rafael said instead, lips twitching upward as he looked levelly at Nick, who huffed out a laugh but moved to tangle their hands together.

“Want to change that?”

Suddenly he was flat on his back, Nick’s warm body pinning him to the bed. Nick’s lips dragged across his ear, then his wet, probing tongue, the sting of teeth against his earlobe, sloppy, loud kisses along his jaw, the column of his throat.

“I think that’s on the menu somewhere tonight,” Rafael panted as Nick sucked savagely on a spot above his collarbone. “And I will one-hundred percent kill you if you mark me up. I have court tomorrow.”

“I like that menu,” Nick growled, completely ignoring the threat. “Where would you like to be seated for your meal?”

At this, Rafael let out a full laugh. “Dirty maitre’d? _That_ is a new one.”

Nick’s hands slid down to tug at the button of his trousers. “I love it when you smile, it’s so rare.”

Rafael helped him with the button and zip, there was a slight moment of confusion when his suspenders got tangled, but then he was laid bare, extremely aware of the bulge forming in his boxer-briefs, the atrophy of his chest, the slight paunch of his stomach. He fought the absurd but relentless urge to curl up and hide somewhere dark and looked at Nick instead.

Nick pressed a kiss just under his ear. “You good?” he asked. “I know this isn’t easy.”

Rafael barked out a laugh, then turned his lips back to Nick’s ear. “I don’t know if can tell, but I don’t get out much. Sorry I look like…a lawyer,” he said, indicating his body, which, compared to Nick’s toned and muscled frame made him feel very much like the pale and underfed twelve-year old he had been.

Nick, of course, was looking directly at his crotch like he was a biologist in the goddamn Amazon. “And I thought I was packing heat.”

“Jesus, shut up.” Rafael couldn’t help himself, embarrassed. Straight men. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

That earned him a crooked smile. “Only the pretty ones.” He moved to straddle Rafael’s hips, coming back down for a quick kiss and an experimental grind across his groin.

“Ah!” Rafael didn’t even try to hold back. They were, after all, _in love_ and _married_ , right?

He felt Nick smile against his neck, all teeth, and then another slow grind, setting an agonizing pace that allowed him to feel every inch of Nick, even through their remaining clothes. “Fuck,” he said through gritted teeth. “You—you’re so hard.”

“What do you expect?” Nick replied. He pulled Rafael closer to him, tangling his hands in his hair. “‘S a lot less gel than I thought there’d be.”

“Stop talking,” Rafael said, and pressed his lips, hot, clumsy, against Nick’s. “You know that’ll only make me talk back. I’ve learned that it’s a very effective mood killer.”

“No, no, no,” Nick crooned, licking and nipping until he found a place that made Rafael bite back a moan, and good God, had the man been to Julliard? Because Rafael wasn’t even pretending and he wasn’t this good— “ _Rafael._ Come on. I want to hear you.” He sucked harder on that place just under his ear, and this time, Rafael let himself go, letting out a soft groan, wrapping his legs around Nick’s waist to pull him closer.

“Give me a reason,” he challenged, looking him straight in the eye.

Nick pinned his hands above his head, entwining their hands together, so Rafael could feel his whole weight. Then he thrust lightly, grinding their hips together.

“Ah!” He chased blindly, trying to keep the friction close.

“Yes,” Nick murmured, still thrusting against him.  

“Motherfucker,” Rafael hissed, jerking his hips up to meet Nick halfway. He twisted to try gain some leverage, but had to satisfy himself with sucking a deep, hard bruise below Nick’s collarbone, only biting harder when Nick’s grip on his wrists loosened and he closed his eyes, mouth slack.

“Sensitive,” Rafael gloated, running the tip of his tongue along the shell of Nick’s ear, enjoying the full body shiver that followed.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Amaro said so vehemently that Rafael lost himself entirely in the fantasy. He reached down, touching Nick through his boxers.

Nick wanted him. It wasn’t a game. It wasn’t pretend. Not only was Nick’s erection straining against the elastic waistband, but it was _wet_ , as Rafael rubbed up and down slowly, pre-cum smearing against his palm. “You like this,” he said, almost thoughtfully. He’d never expected Nick to really enjoy this at all, to be hard and leaking after what really only counted as “heavy petting” in most middle school curricula across America. There was no way Nick, straight, lady-killer, father-of-two Nick Amaro was actually enjoying the sensation of the flat planes of a male body, the roughness in Rafael’s voice, the feel of Rafael’s hard prick pressing into his hipbone.

No, he thought. Nick wants _this_ , the sensations, the excitement. It’s not about you.

Twisted son of a bitch. Not that Rafael hadn’t known one or two in his day.

So he went back to work.

Nick slid forward to straddle Rafael’s hips again, pushing down to make sure Rafael could feel the cleft of his ass rub right along his cock. “I want _you_ , I’ve always wanted you.”

“Yeah?” Suddenly he was angry, incensed. How dare he take advantage of this situation, of Rafael’s desire, holding it in his face and laughing, knowing that he would go home with Rollins while Rafael would go home alone, jerk off in the shower again to things he couldn’t have?

“You want me?” He tangled his hand in Nick’s hair and pulled, pulled him down to engage in a deep kiss that he held for as long as humanly possible, forcing him to feel his tongue, his stubble, his teeth, making Nick breathe in the sweat, the maleness of him, because as long as they were playing, it was going to be _his_ game. “You want this?” he gasped as they parted, pushing a palm against Nick’s chest, thrusting up as hard as he could, trying to impress on Nick that if this kept going, yes, he was going to fuck him.

It seemed like Amaro didn’t really care, because he just leaned back in impatiently, trying to kiss him again. When Rafael just kept his hand between them, and looked at him, Nick frowned. “Yes, I do. I told you. Please. I can feel you, you want…you want this too, right?”

“Worrying about consent, Detective?” he glowered.

They locked eyes. Amaro was unreadable. After a beat, he said, “Fuck you, Counselor.”

“Well, I was told that’s the idea,” Rafael answered as breezily as possible.

  Nick rolled off him and stared at the ceiling. It was silent except for their breathing.

“Come on,” Rafael muttered. “Meyers isn’t here yet.”

“Yeah, it’s always about the case,” Amaro mumbled, and Rafael blinked.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Suddenly he felt Amaro’s brute strength as he was flipped over to stare at his own reflection in the burnished headboard, arms held behind his back with one hand as the other snaked into his underwear and gripped his erection nearly painfully, setting a rough, fast pace. He let his head fall into the pillows and gave in. He really wasn't going to get out of Amaro’s grip, and it felt fantastic, and then the idea that this was possibly how Amaro jerked _himself_ off settled in, and that—that was absolutely it.

“Amaro,” Rafael gasped. “Amaro, you’re going to have to stop, or I’m going to—”

“Say my name,” he growled, low and urgent.

Rafael genuinely marveled at the spike of arousal that hit him, its velocity and intensity. I am weirder than usual when it comes to Ama—Nick, he noted for dissection later—and all thought disappeared as Nick’s mouth latched back onto his neck.

“Yes, yes, no, Nick, please stop, I can’t—”

This only made Nick double the pace. “Do it, I want to see you come—”

“ _No_ , absolutely _not_ , Carisi could burst in here literally any moment—”

“Seriously? Carisi’s your problem, not Meyers?”

“No, _Nick, you_ are my problem, _get off—_ ”

“Trying—”

“Also need to put those pants on later, and—”

Then they both heard it. A soft click and whirr in the door, and Rafael lifted his head abruptly and made panicked eye contact through their reflection. “Okay, _tranquilo, Rafi, si_? C’mon, kiss me again.” Nick let him go gently, and Rafael turned over gingerly, rubbing his wrists.

“I’m so sorry about that, _Rafi_ , _por favor_.”

He opened his mouth, let Nick kiss him, eyes still wide open. “Good, good _._ ” Nick kissed him again and again, but Rafael couldn’t ignore the jumping of their hearts together, pulse like thunder in his ears. “ _Puedes verlo_?”

Rafael shook his head, hands gripping Nick’s arms so tightly there would be nail marks later. “ _Siento_ ,” he whispered, consciously removing his hands. “He’s closer _._ ”

“Shit,” Nick murmured against his lips. “Fucking Carisi—”

“No!” Rafael said, putting his hands back on Nick’s shoulders, thrusting up with his hips to induce a low groan, hoping to cover up their whispering. “ _Tenemos que esperar. Si?_ He needs to incriminate himself _._ ”

“It’s killing me.” Rafael was sure it was meant to come out as a complaint, but instead it sounded like a confession, one that made him kiss the corner of Nick’s mouth like it’d melt the frown away.

“ _Calma, querido. En tres, dos…_ ”

The minute Meyers’s shadow moved into his frame of vision, Rafael shoved Nick off him and leapt across the room. “Hey!” he shouted. “Who the fuck are you?”

“You’ll wish you never knew, sweetheart,” Meyers said, then picked up the chair—Rafael watched his large hands wrinkle the lining of his suit jacket—and swung, hitting Rafael so hard a chair leg splintered and he crashed to the ground, stunned with pain. “That’s just the start. But why don’t I start with your _faggot_ husband here, I like a fight.” He pulled out a knife that flashed in the light. Ten-inch, newly sharpened, with a single notch so big it had deceived forensics into thinking it was a serrated blade for a while based on the pattern of the wounds. Meyers turned it over on his hands, approaching Nick slowly. He stood his ground, primed for a fight.

Seriously. _Death wish._

“Rafi, you okay?” he called, eyes never leaving Meyers.

“I’m—I’m fine,” he managed, scanning the room for a possible weapon in case Meyers changed his target.

“Oh, he’s fine, for the moment. But you—I’m going to cut you open, fuck you with this knife, leave you to bleed out while you watch me do the same thing to—”

Suddenly there was a great crash, Carisi shouting—“NYPD! Hands up!”—and the door being kicked open, Olivia’s and Rollins’s voices joining the fray, and in a quicksilver move, Nick knocked the knife to the floor and kicked it away. Rafael closed his eyes and exhaled so deeply it felt as though he’d been holding his breath for his entire life.

And then just as suddenly, it became very, very quiet.

“That’s right. Any of you move, I’ll break his neck,” Meyers said. With great effort, Rafael raised his head back up and focused. He could make out the shape of Meyers’s massive back, and Nick’s bare legs dangling, toes barely brushing the floor.

“All right. All right, Joe, look, I’m putting my gun away.” That was Liv, the slide of a holster. “Now we can make this easy, or we can make it difficult. Why don’t you let him go, and we can talk.”

Ever the savior. Rafael heard a foreboding creak, watched Meyers’s muscles bunch under his night guard uniform. He lolled his head back onto the soft carpet, eyes coming to rest on his jacket. If he could just reach the paperweight on the table, maybe—he pushed himself up but only succeeded on landing on his jacket, something poking sharply into his side. He looked down. It was a pen, the low-end Waterman his _abuela_ had saved for months and months to get him when he graduated from law school. He almost laughed. Imagine if she could see him now. But then he pulled it slowly from his pocket and an idea came to him as he twisted it open.

With great effort, he lifted himself from the floor and steadied a firm stance behind Meyers, and held the pen up, the writing end resting on the back of Meyers’s neck. “No,” he rasped, surprised when his voice came out strong. “Try anything, and I will put this through your neck so fast.”

“Like you could,” Meyers sneered at him, but didn’t move, all the same. “Weak little cocksucker.”

“Well, take your chances. I guess I’m not the only one who likes to carry around a little knife.” He pressed the pen harder against Meyers, leaving a dark blue indentation. “I admit, it wouldn’t kill you,” he said, ignoring Olivia’s shift from concern to anger. _What are you doing?_

“It would definitely just leave you paralyzed. Cut through just enough of your spine.” He laughed, and it was horrible and hollow. It was his court laugh, Christ. He really needed to get out more, join a book club or something. “I’d enjoy watching you shit yourself for the rest of your life. Get your diapers changed in prison. Ready?”

“Fuck you,” Meyers spat.

“That _was_ sort of my plan for this evening, before you ruined it. Now, I suggest you let go of—how did you put it?—my _faggot husband_ before I get impatient.”

The whole room relaxed in micro-increments, as Nick’s feet slowly touched the ground and Meyers’s hands went up. It was agonizing, it was light years as his hand pressed the pen harder and harder, drawing small blue dots. Then Nick coughed, he could breathe again, and Rollins moved swiftly to cuff Meyers, sparing Rafael an icy look as she Mirandized the suspect out the door. Nick moved to pull Rafael’s jacket over his shoulders.

“Barba, you crazy fuck, what the hell—”

Rafael sank onto a chair, laughing hysterically, which only made Nick’s arms around him tighten. He lifted his arm, and watched the whole room recognize the instrument in his hand. “The pen, I’ve been told,” he gasped between giggles, “is mightier than the sword.”

 

#


	2. Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nick Amaro continues to be far more eloquent with his body than with his words, bless him, and none of us are surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been forever and a day! I am sorry!
> 
> All you need to know for this chapter is that a) it has been 7ever since I wrote porn, b) sorry if my punctuation is weird, but it's actually been 7ever since I wrote fiction, and c) this story is saved as "stakeout makeout.docx" in my files.
> 
> Headcanon: Barba is just as neurotic as I am. 
> 
> *If you have any questions about the Spanish, let me know. Thought it should all be pretty self-evident, but, you know.

#             

Olivia stared at him and frowned, put her hands on her hips and stood back, collecting herself. “You guys.” She waved at SWAT. “We’re good. Thanks.”

“Sarge?” Carisi asked.

“Meet you back at the precinct. Go with Rollins.” She looked at Nick and Rafael, who was no longer laughing. “You two—”

“I’m fine,” Nick said firmly.

“Nick—”

“Fine,” he repeated. “Look, we’ll just—we’ll just get dressed and head back to the precinct.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Get dressed. I’m staying here, and you are _both_ getting checked out. And then you’re going home—”

“Olivia—” Rafael began.

“ _Home._ ”

Nick gathered their clothes efficiently while Olivia crossed her arms and looked out the hotel window like she wanted a cigarette. Then he helped Rafael up and they made their way to the bathroom.

Rafael staunchly avoided his own reflection and set about dressing himself mechanically. Undershirt, trousers, suspenders, shirt, tie, vest. He draped his jacket over his arm and set about doing his cufflinks. Left cuff, no trouble. Then the right—he aligned the seams precisely, sucked in a breath, and missed. He tried again, to no avail. And again, and again, until he had to close his eyes just so he didn’t have to watch himself fail again.

“Hey. Hey,” Nick said, a warm hand coming to rest on his shoulder, much as it had at the beginning of the evening. “Rafi.”      

“You—you don’t have to call me that anymore,” he answered shakily.

“Rafi,” Nick said, like the stubborn ass he was. “You’re trembling. Here.” He gently took the cufflink from Rafael’s hand and pushed it through, closing it with a satisfying click. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

It was all rushing out of him: The adrenaline, the fear, the arousal, leaving only the pain in his face and head, the slight ache of his wrists. He held his jacket closer and pinched the bridge of his nose.

He was going to buy great scotch. Excellent scotch. The best scotch. Another indulgence, or vice, if you looked at it in the right light, but much, much healthier and safer than this one—this one where he let himself linger as Nick moved to hold him, where he remembered the salt against Nick’s skin and wanted to taste it again and again, this one where, despite Nick having come within inches of death today, he idly wondered how long Olivia would mind waiting outside if he were to drop to his knees like he’d wanted to months and months ago.

Nick interpreted his silence as shock. “You did great. I'm sorry. You’re okay.”

“I—I—I’m okay,” he repeated through a dry throat, a desert of a larynx.

A soft knock on the door. “You all right in there?”

“Yeah, just a second, Liv.” Nick tilted Rafael’s chin up to look him straight in the eye. “You ready?”

“Yeah. Yes. Just briefcase—and socks. Socks and shoes.”

“You should definitely get checked out,” Nick said, before clicking off the light and opening the door.

#

 

         It was possibly the most awkward elevator ride of his life.  And he’d been in the elevator with defense counsel plenty of times. Liv kept looking over with her mouth full of questions, and Nick glanced at him with concern pinching his face. Motherfucker. Rafael had probably been concussed before the whole debacle; this had been such a bad idea. To think it had been an impulse born from too much sitting still. He needed a hobby, like knitting, or Sudoku. Jesus. Hadn’t he been considering a book club, earlier?

He didn’t want to know what he looked like as he flinched from the burst of noise that came when they exited the lobby, didn’t want to know what made Nick’s hand settle firmly on the small of his back. He just wanted it to stop. This whole night, this entire charade, he’d been walking the razor’s edge and now he’d slipped and he just needed to get home and lick his wounds.  

The back of the ambulance was too bright, and he was given a blanket for shock and prodded and lights were put into his eyes and he was declared fit to go back home, although, he was informed, he was very lucky and that he should check in in twenty-four hours anyway. He looked over at where Nick was being evaluated, wondered how he’d missed the dark bruising around his throat.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked softly.

“You’re good to go,” the EMT replied briskly.

“Thanks,” he said, slipping off the back of the ambulance and walking toward where Liv was leaning against her car. He nodded toward Nick. “Amaro’s neck. Fucking hell.”

“Not like you had a cakewalk either,” she said, looking him over with a practiced eye.

“Yeah, I need to go see if I even have frozen peas to put on this.” He vaguely indicated the side of his head where there was definitely a bruise forming. “He has strangulation marks. Marks we don’t see outside of a morgue.”

Liv sighed. “That’s—that’s not something I—”

“Sorry,” he murmured. “Sorry, sorry.”

“No—Barba. Barba, look at me.” He did and found it utterly unbearable. “You did really great in there. Really convincing, and the pen was...inspired.”

“Olivia…” There were a thousand jagged words that wanted to pour out of his lungs, but she was the last one that deserved it, even though her _big eyes_ and her _concern_ were killing him. “Thanks. It wasn’t as hard as you’d think.”

She smiled at him and shifted to look back out onto the street. “Looked plenty hard from where I was sitting,” she said so quietly he almost missed it.

“What—” His head hurt from how fast he turned to look at her, but all he got was a wink as Nick jogged up to them.

“I’m all set,” he said. “Let’s go back.”

“ _Home_ , Nick,” Liv said with an exasperated roll of her eyes.

“My car’s at the precinct,” said Nick with an innocent shrug.

“I catch you sneaking some paperwork—you are _not_ filing OT—”

Rafael let their bickering lull him into a light doze. There was something about growing up in a full family that made absolute silence uncomfortable.

 

#

 

              “Need a ride?”

              Rafael eyed him warily—maybe for so long it could be construed as an invitation, but ambiguity was the name of the game, and they’d both been dealt a strange hand this evening. “Sure.” He slid into the passenger seat of Nick’s car, kicking aside an empty coffee cup. There was a child’s seat in the back, but it was on the floor, not buckled in. It smelled like a combination of Nick—clean, generic laundry detergent, newspaper ink, things that charred—and Honey-Nut Cheerios. He cast an eye over everything except Nick’s hands on the steering wheel, turning the ignition, thrusting the car into drive.

“Seatbelt,” Nick said warningly.

“Buckle up, it’s the law?” Rafael quipped, strapping himself in nonetheless.

“Sorry, old habit. Kids. I asked Maria one time if she’d washed her hands when she came out of the bathroom. Looked at me like I was crazy.”

“Hmm,” Rafael said instead of anything. They pulled out of the parking lot, onto the road where Nick promptly ran a red light then slowed down.

This city that held so much in its shadows was aglow tonight with streetlights and office buildings. Maybe it was a concussion. Maybe it was a lingering high from his brush with a serial killer. Maybe it was the drug he kept breathing in every time he inhaled, the smell off the man next to him both a stale reality and a vivid, panting memory. He said nothing as they turned familiar corners, the same route a veteran taxi would take to get him home.

“Sorry if it seems—creepy. I know everyone’s address,” Nick said.

“Some peoples’ better than others, I would assume.”

“Because after Liv was kidnapped, I needed to know. I needed to know that maybe I could keep all of you safe,” Nick pressed on, ignoring the barb.

Rafael shifted, raised an eyebrow. “Why—you know I’m not actually part of your squad, right?”

Nick sighed and Rafael prayed for green lights, a straight shot home so that there would be no pause for mandated eye contact. “You’re the kind of ADA cops dream about, Rafi.”

Like a wool sweater on bare skin, the nickname pricked and itched. But Rafael said nothing. His suits were never anything less than one hundred percent wool if he could help it. “Oh, yeah? How?”

“You—you fight.” Nick looked like he had more to say, but then he bit his lip in concentration as he parallel-parked in front of Rafael’s building.

Rafael almost hit himself in the face with the seatbelt in his haste to exit the car. He really didn’t need anymore awkward lingering than strictly necessary, thank you. One might interpret it as _pining_ , and he was not down with that. Not in public, anyway.

He cursed under his breath when he heard the other car door slam and the beep of the locks. Nick slipped behind him into the building, the elevator.

“Driving me to my apartment, Detective?” he joked weakly, and Nick laughed, a real, solid thing.

“Always, Counselor.”

Rafael wondered exactly how hard he’d have to hit his head against the elevator walls to knock himself out.  Because this—this was definitely not on the agenda tonight. He couldn’t deal with Nick and whatever bullshit sexuality problem he wanted to sort out, couldn’t handle his insides being plucked over like a piano being tuned: He was sure his strings were already so tightly coiled he’d snap. Being alone meant that you were the only one subjected to being out of tune. It didn’t have to matter to anyone else, and it didn’t matter if it was for a month, forever, for a night. It was preferable not to sing for anyone but yourself.

They reached his door, and Rafael could feel the warmth of Nick’s body as he stood a little too close, cramping him against his own door. After what seemed like an eternity, he fumbled his door open and turned around to stop Nick at the doorframe. “Thanks,” he said.

Nick looked at him, eyes glinting darkly in the low hallway light.

“For—you know. And driving me home,” Rafael rattled off quickly. “You didn’t have to, I’m sure you’re tired—”

“Isn’t this the part where you invite me in?” Nick asked.

Rafael had to look down, focus on the threshold where carpet met tile. “I—I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He felt, rather than heard, Nick’s surprise, like his warmth receded back into his body. “Why not?”

And here they were back in their old rehearsed steps of hostility.

“I just—”

“Didn’t you feel—”

“Feel _what_ , Nick?” he snapped, and then Nick kissed him. Took his face in both his hands, slotted warm lips against his own. A brief, cozy spark flickered in Rafael’s sternum. Nick stepped closer, moved to entangle their fingers and push into Rafael’s mouth with his tongue.

“That,” Nick breathed when he ended the kiss, resting his forehead against Rafael’s own. “Didn’t you feel that?”

Rafael closed his eyes. “I…Nick, you have a family. Come on. Two kids. This isn’t what you want.”

“Don’t tell me what I want.”

“Don’t tell me what to feel.”

Nick stepped back at that, hands snapping back to his own personal space. “I’m sorry. If you didn’t—don’t—feel anything, then I’ll go, and we can just ignore—whatever. But Rafi…”

Rafael looked up for vicious, unrelenting eye contact.

“…Be honest. Tell me, tell yourself the truth, and I’ll go home.”

Rafael drew in a breath to tell him, no, I don’t feel shit, get out of my building, but instead what came out was, “I’m not going to be your 30-day free trial run, Nick. I have too much skin in the game for that.” So to speak.

“That’s not it. I’d never…Rafi, I…I’ve thought about this before.”

“Nick, no offense, but I’ve heard that before.” Rafael leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. “This isn’t even about being burned, this is just about wasting time. We’re both tired, and we will be for the rest of our lives. No reason to sacrifice any more sleep than we need to. Good night.” And he went to shut the door. Crisis averted, at least, until he had to see Nick at work the next morning and then for essentially the rest of foreseeable time.

“Wait!” Nick threw out a hand, nearly got his fingers caught in the door. Death wish. “I was—I was hard.”

“And we both know that doesn't mean anything, Detective,” Rafael answered waspishly. “It’s a natural response to the physical stimuli, regardless of the circumstances. You can go home and enjoy your heterosexuality in peace.”

“But that’s not what I meant. I thought—back in that hotel room, I thought you were on board with me. I thought you volunteered,” Nick said, confusion flitting over his face.

“I did volunteer,” Rafael said. “I wanted to help, I wanted you to catch him.”

Nick was shaking his head. “I thought…I thought you _volunteered_.” He closed his eyes briefly. “God, I’m an idiot.”

“What? Amaro, what are you—”

“You can’t even say my name. I’m—I’m sorry, I just…I thought…I’m sorry.”

Rafael looked at him critically. Nick’s eyes were closed and his jaw was tight. The lean length of his body was tense and he tried to stop looking, but the dim light only made the marks on Nick’s neck more livid, only emphasized the angles of his face and the way he filled out his suit. “Nick,” he said. “Nick, _no lo entiendo_ … _no tienes sentido_ …”

“No, of course not,” Nick said, and that temper flared again, and even if it was going to be at fuck-all o’clock in the morning and in his doorway, at least now Rafael knew he would get the truth, because he’d learned long ago that, if it was anything, anger was honest. “ _Por supuesto que no tiene sentido..._ for someone like you.”

“What do you mean, ‘someone like me’?” Rafael asked softly. “‘Someone like me’? What’s that supposed to mean—you mean ‘ _máricon,’_ you fucking say it—”

“A lawyer,” Nick interrupted loudly, and stood up straight suddenly, loomed over Rafael. “A lawyer. Everything has to make sense, everything has to follow its path or it’s not worth it. Smart guy. I’m sorry, okay? I made a fucking mistake, I thought you wanted—” His hand curled into a fist, and Rafael flinched.

It was a shadow of a thing, but of course Nick didn’t miss it. “No, no,” he said, anger suddenly bottoming out completely as he consciously unclenched his fist, hand shaking as he reached out tentatively to put a hand on Rafael’s arm. “How could you—I'm not mad at you, baby, I would never hit you—”

“I’ve been told that a lot,” Rafael said flatly, but he didn’t draw back from Nick’s touch. “And since when am I your ‘baby’?”

Nick sighed and sagged, really giving up. “That’s what I meant. I thought you volunteered because you—because you wanted to be there. With me. I should’ve known it was just for the case, but I just…”

“Hope is a thing with feathers,” Rafael said, throat suddenly dry. “Emily Dickinson,” he answered to Nick’s look. “It’s a poem.”

“Well, I—I know I’m not the guy you were planning on taking to the opera, Counselor, but I guess we can just—”

              And then there was something, something about the open-heart surgery Nick was performing on himself, about his deflated anger that made something in Rafael slip. Something about Nick clearly feeling lost and stupid, but leaving the chest cavity open.

“No, shut up, don’t talk about the opera, don’t call me ‘Counselor,’ come here, please—” Rafael pulled at the warm hand Nick had left on his shoulder. “You weren’t wrong, you weren’t wrong—”

Nick let himself be tugged into the apartment. “I wasn’t?” Rafael leaned forward, letting their combined weight shut the door, and tucked his head briefly between Nick’s cheek and his shoulder.

“No.” With a deep breath, he righted himself, and switched the lights on in his kitchen. “I’m sorry. You hungry? Want something to drink?”

“It’s okay,” Nick said, recognizing the universal and perhaps purer apology in the offer for food. “I’m still too strung out to eat. Could use a drink though.”

The crystal of the wine glasses rang out loudly in the silence as Rafael set two on the counter and opened a bottle, poured two generous helpings. “Cheers,” he said. “To not being dead.”

“To getting your ass saved by a pen,” Nick added, and clinked his glass. They both drank too fast, too busy thinking about not looking at the other. “Seriously, though, where the fuck did you come up with that?”

“Law school,” Rafael said, the memory flooding back to him suddenly. “To stay awake in case I got cold-called in class. I used to press that pen into my hand.”

“Staying out late?”

“I had to work. To help with my loans.”

“Not out with strange men catching criminals, then.”

Rafael laughed. “Does that idea bother you? Me with strange men?”

Nick looked at him seriously. “I want to know who hurt you,” he said, “and I want to hurt them.”

A shiver shot down Rafael’s spine. “Nobody _hurt_ me, Nick,” he said. “Just the usual scars from old girlfriends, boyfriends. Just life kicking me down the stairs like everybody else. I got up.”

“I want to hurt the stairs,” Nick said, and pulled him into a kiss, ripe with wine and desire.

“Pretty sure that’s not going to help,” Rafael said wryly.

Nick’s answer was to kiss him again, to pull Rafael’s body flush against his own. “Was so fucking hot,” he mumbled against Rafael’s mouth. “Touching you, watching you”—he paused for breath, to set his wine glass down—“when you walked into that hotel room, couldn’t believe it—”

More desperate touches, ghosts through the heavy fabric of Rafael’s suit, desperate and heavy against his bare skin until it was unbearable. Rafael slipped off his suit jacket and vest, biting back protests as Nick wrenched his shirt from his trousers, ripped his tie from his throat. Those strong hands on him, taking, taking, impressing burning finger marks as his hands slid underneath Rafael’s shirt, slotted in between his ribs.

“Fuck—”

He pulled off Nick’s police jacket and unbuckled his belt, hooking his fingers into the belt loops to draw them close. Just as hot and hard as he’d been in the hotel room, slow grind against his hip, Nick’s mouth on his ear again. He let out an involuntary noise, a cross between a groan and a whimper, and then suddenly he was lifted and set back down on his couch, catching a moment to breathe as Nick whipped off his shirt before they were close again.

“I want to rip this off you,” Nick growled with impatience, fumbling with the buttons on Rafael’s shirt.

“I will kick you out,” Rafael answered cheerfully, taking over to make quick work of the buttons and cuffs. Then he spat into his palm and reached down to slide his hand down Nick’s pants.

“Oh, yeah, that’s fuckin’ amazing—”

Slick slide and thrust as Nick’s eyes fluttered shut and his hips pumped, fucking into Rafael’s fist. His elbows dug uncomfortably down into Rafael’s collarbone, belt buckle jangling with every movement. Tell-tale stutter of his hips and hitch in his breath, so Rafael reluctantly withdrew his hand.

“What the fuck,” Nick panted. “I was so—I was so—”

“I know.” Nick looked up at him. “Just wait.” He twisted his way out from under Nick, maneuvered so that he was straddling him, close enough that his own straining erection bumped into Nick’s hand as Nick idly stroked himself. He leaned in to kiss Nick softly, tenderly, even, and then leaned in and said, “I’ve wanted to suck your cock since the minute I met you.”

He slid down to kneel on the floor, hardwood digging into his knees, gently took Nick’s wrist to suck on his fingers, taking each finger in at a time, tasting the salt and the sweat and the cut of Nick’s nails in the back of his throat, eyes wide open to watch Nick sigh and twist his fingers out of Rafael’s mouth only to drag him up by the shirt collar for a dirty kiss, whispering mindlessly, “You want to suck me off? Yeah, you like that?” only to have Rafael answer,

“Yes, fuck, yes, I want you, I want to taste you, fuck my mouth _please_ —”

And then he coiled back onto his knees and pulled Nick out of his boxers, taking a long, slow lick before sliding his mouth down slowly to take as much in as he easily could, sucking slow and hard, letting saliva pool and drip down so that when he took Nick into his throat, slowly swallowing around the head of his cock to make sure that Nick could _feel_ his throat working, it was a smooth, easy movement.

It wasn’t manipulative, necessarily, but Rafael knew what this image could do to a man—him on his knees, eyes open, mouth wet and messy—and so when he took Nick’s hand and placed it delicately on his neck, resting just on the bulge his cock was making in Rafael’s throat, the resulting groan was predictable but deeply satisfying.

“Oh, my God, fuck.” Nick pinched his eyes shut as Rafael dragged his mouth back up and down, put a tentative hand in his hair that Rafael enthusiastically leant into. Nick put his hands on Rafael’s head, and pushed with his hips, clearly holding back as he pumped slowly into Rafael’s mouth, pausing at the little gagging noises until Rafael clasped his own hands behind his back and let his mouth slide down all the way onto Nick’s wet cock.

There was something powerful in this, in watching Nick absolutely lose control, one hand on the back of Rafael’s head and one on his neck, fucking into his mouth, using him. The power of inducing pleasure, of controlling every sound and twitch and sigh.

“Rafi, I—I’m so close—”

He could feel come pulsing down his throat, pulling off slowly so some ended up on his chin, his lips. He sat back on his heels, watching Nick recover, feeling suddenly apprehensive. Not that this hadn’t been great, but this was the moment Nick felt weird, felt like he had to reciprocate, and when confronted with an _actual penis_ , panicked. Maybe he’d get a half-assed handjob, if that. Which was better than nothing, but all the reasons he’d wanted to kick Nick out in the first place came flooding back, as Nick’s semen cooled on his face.

He waited.

Nick heaved a couple breaths, then opened his eyes to look down at Rafael. One heartbeat, two. Then he leaned down to press urgent lips against Rafael’s, a little over-enthusiastic with tongue if anything, and then hauled Rafael back up, spooning him awkwardly on the narrow couch. “Thank you,” he breathed. “That was amazing.” He placed a lazy vine of sloppy kisses, laced with teeth, along Rafael’s neck and behind his ear.

“Court tomorrow,” he warned.

Nick just laughed. “Loosen up, _querido_. Nobody’s going to look twice at a hickey when you come to court looking like you do.”

“ _I’ll_ know it’s there, and that’ll be distracting enough.”

“Mm, I like that. You in court, touching this spot”—he sucked lightly just below the collar—“or here—or here—” He groped clumsily at Rafael’s groin, his chest, and Rafael couldn’t help but laugh.

“Like I said.” Nick suddenly loomed above him again. “I love it when you smile.” Rafael blinked, laugh frozen on his face. Nick nestled his face into the crook of his neck, struggled with the catch on his trousers to touch him lightly through his underwear. “So,” he said. “Where’s your bedroom?”

Nick helped him up off the couch, and held his hand as Rafael led them past the hallway closet, the bathroom, to the door with two chips in the paint by the doorjamb (he’d gotten locked out twice on his way out of the shower). He opened his door, suddenly and inexplicably nervous. Was it messy? Was the laundry basket too full? Would Nick think it was too ordinary, indistinctive—would it blur in the carousel of bedrooms Nick had been in, would be in? Or would it be too sharp—too _gay_ , too something?

So it was a little underwhelming when he looked around—dark gray sheets, blue coverlet, alarm clock radio. The light slanting in from the windows above his headboard was muted and pale. He turned on the lamp on his dresser, suffusing the room with a softer glow he hoped would be more flattering.

Nick wasn’t looking at the room. Nick was looking at him, taking both his hands and pulling him to the bed. They lay down and Nick stretched with a groan. “Ugh, this feels great. Just in case you didn’t know, being strangled is hell on your back. Do not get strangled.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Rafael said quietly, raising a hand to trace the bruises across Nick’s neck. “Going to fall asleep on me now?”

Nick turned his head to press his lips against the inside of his wrist. “Oh, of course not. I want…unless you’re tired. We can sleep.”

Rafael ignored the impertinent assumption that Nick would sleep here, shook it off brusquely and instead pushed Nick’s hand down between their bodies onto his cock. “Does it feel like I’m tired?”

“Mm, fuck no. Thank God.” He pulled off Rafael’s clothes, tossing them all in a careless pile on the floor. He stepped out of bed for a second to strip off his own trousers and boxers, and then slowly sat back down at Rafael’s feet, kissing the inside of his knees and thighs, sucking in his hip. “You’re so fucking sexy.”

“Thanks, but no. I look like the Pillsbury Dough Boy.”

“You mean, you look delicious.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Would you want any different?”

“No,” Rafael said quietly as Nick raked his fingernails in long stripes down Rafael’s side, mouthed at the fading red marks.

“Good. Neither would I.” Nick’s body bore down on him, hands kneading his ass, abs rubbing along his dick. “Wanted you for so long,” he breathed. “I didn’t understand it, I didn’t get it, I’d never wanted a man before—” Here Rafael gasped as Nick started to jerk him off, roughly as he had before. “But Rafi, something about you, I thought about it a long while, and the more I thought, the more I just knew.”

Half-assed handjob though it may be, it was a hell of a half-assed handjob. Rafael found himself just as desperate as the last time, reluctant to finish like this but nerves still so alight.

“I just knew. God, I want you to fuck me.”

“What?” Rafael sat up and stared down at Nick despite himself.

“I want you to fuck me, please say you’re ready, seriously.” Nick turned to rifle through Rafael’s night-side table drawers. “You got lube?”

“Second drawer,” Rafael said. This wasn’t the pattern. This wasn’t the norm. Nick tossed him the lubricant and a strip of condoms, which Rafael held up with a raised eyebrow. “Let’s not get too ambitious.”

Nick laughed, then scooted up to rest his head on the pillows and spread his legs, smile nearly feral with what seemed to be a challenge. He kissed him gently, pliantly, feathering touches along his stomach, his legs. “Have you ever…before?”

Nick looked away at that. “Just—just my own…”

“Christ.” Rafael was smacked with an image of Nick fingering himself. “I’ll go slow.”

“Please.”

Rafael coated his fingers liberally with lube, kissing Nick thoroughly as he rubbed the pad of his thumb against his hole.

“I was more ready earlier,” Nick was saying. “At the hotel. In case I had to…”

“Just. Shh. I can’t,” Rafael said curtly. Then he amended, “The idea of you—touching yourself. It’s excruciatingly hot. I might pass out.”

He felt Nick relax substantially against him, and slipped the tip of his index finger in. God, he was so tight. He carefully followed the passage to try hit his mark. “How’s that?” he asked, tapping upward onto Nick’s prostate.

A quick clench and sucked in breath. “Good—weird. Intense. Good.”

Rafael slowly fucked into him, one finger, and then two, fascinated by the changes that flew across Nick’s face. Pressure, pain, pleasure. He pushed in a third fingertip, stretching slowly as Nick adjusted. “Nick—”

“Rafi, I’m ready, please—”

So he removed his fingers, put on the condom, added lube. He thrust in slowly, leaning forward on his elbows as he felt Nick draw his legs up. He dropped his head down for a kiss.

Most of the kisses in his life—never mind naked, mid-fuck make-out sessions—had rarely involved this much thinking. The time he kissed Yelina and he knew it would be the last, the first time he’d kissed a man, the one time he made the mistake of fucking the defense (hot, yes, wise, no)—and yet again he found himself reading a thousand words per second against the dark of his eyelids. Was Nick okay? Not just—physically, but was Nick _okay_? This was a terrible idea, probably, but then again, apparently it was a night for it, so he gradually pushed his hips forward into tight, hot heat.

“Oh, yeah.” Nick pulled his knees higher and rocked his hips back. “That’s. That’s good.”

“You have to breathe, genius.” Rafael leant down and absorbed himself in trying to take care of Nick, kissing a soft, self-indulgent path across the bruises on his neck. Nick laughed, then did as he was told, a deep inhale and exhale fluttering by Rafael’s ear. His body relaxed and he nudged Rafael on after a moment, pressing his heels into the small of his back.

“Come on,” he said. “I want you.”

Rafael leaned forward, ignoring the burn of the muscles in his abdomen, pulled out, thrust in again, setting a rhythm that was deep and fast, and all the while, Nick sighed a litany of thoughts into his ear—

“—yes, just like that, baby, fuck me _please_ , yes, yes, oh—!” It was that purring moan, a deep guttural thing that made Rafael fuck hard up into him, to grip Nick’s hips and pull him down onto his cock with abandon.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he growled into the shell of Nick’s ear. “So hot—you like this? Is this what you wanted?”

Nick only turned his face, shining with sweat, to meet Rafael’s gaze, tangle his tongue in his mouth. “Yes,” he said, when they broke apart to breathe. “Yes, it’s perfect, yes—”

He was gone, an animal now, aware only of the roar of his pulse and the slick-sweat musk and heat roiling off of Nick’s skin, the pleasure of fucking Nick with abandon. “You gonna come?” he hissed. “You gonna come with my dick in your ass?”

Nick closed his eyes and groaned. “ _Yes._ ” So Rafael began to stroke him off in time with his thrusts, Nick’s hips rising to meet him every time.

“ _Si, Rafi, si—por favor—_ ”

“Slow down _, cariño, estamos casi—”_

“ _No puedo aguantar,_ you fucking bastard _—_ ”

Nick’s back bowed suddenly, abdominal muscles contracting, legs drawing up by his sides as he fisted one hand into the pillows and another, painfully, in Rafael’s hair, eyes closed and mouth open in a silent scream as he came, hard, semen viscous and messy on his stomach, his sides, Rafael’s hand.

Rafael wiped his hand on Nick’s stomach as he was tugged up for a kiss. “Mmm,” Nick said.

“ _Desgraciado_ ,” Rafael muttered, and Nick laughed.

“I wanna watch you,” he said, with a shimmy of his hips. “Let’s go, baby.”

“As long as you never call me ‘baby’ again.”

“C’mon, baby. Give me a show.”

Rafael rolled his eyes but continued, grabbing Nick’s wrists and pinning them above his head as he slammed into him. “Fuck, that feels good.”

“Yeah? Still fucking tight?”

“Not when I’m done.”

“ _Yes, please._ Fuck me, Rafi, please, fuck me—fuck me so hard I can feel it at the office, God, you still feel so good, fuck me, please—”

“Your goddamn mouth,” Rafael snarled, and grabbed Nick’s throat. “I am going to fuck the words out of you.” He slipped his fingers into Nick’s mouth, who sucked them down greedily as Rafael closed his eyes and lost himself in the sensation—the heat and friction around his cock, the wet openness of Nick mouth and tongue, the eager sucking, remembering the look of ecstasy on Nick’s face as he arched and came, and then he was gone—taking his fingers from Nick’s mouth to instead press four deep crescents into Nick’s shoulder with his nails, body going taut for a moment as he came, hard, hips bucking as he emptied himself into Nick.

Finally, he relaxed, vaguely aware of the stickiness between them as he collapsed onto Nick’s solid frame.

Nick littered kisses across his face and combed gentle fingers through his hair. “Fuck, that was amazing, babe. You were so good. Christ, I’m going to jerk off to this forever. You’re so sexy, _querido._ ”

“Mm, you’re one to talk. I’m glad you—I’m glad it was good. I swear to God I was going to lose it, like, five minutes in.”

 _“Mi amor—_ ”

Rafael took the awkward pause to dispose of the condom and wet a washcloth in the bathroom. He tossed it to Nick. “Thanks.”

Suddenly the weariness of the day slammed into him, like a car, and he could feel all the aches and pains in his joints again, the throbbing of a headache, and he wavered where he stood.

“Time to sleep, no?” Nick got up and gently prodded Rafael toward the bed.

He sank into it gratefully. “Head…hurts. Body hurts. Face hurts. Sorry. Just”—here he yawned—“tired, suddenly. No, don’t leave…”

“Shh. I’ll be right back.” The quiet padding of Nick’s feet on the floor, the suck of the freezer door opening, Nick’s feet padding back. “There you go.” He placed a bag of frozen peas right over Rafael’s bruise.

“Toothbrush in cabinet. Use my towels and stuff if you want,” Rafael yawned. “But sleep, first. Sleep here.”

“Okay,” said Nick gamely, and switched off the bedside table lamp and slid under the covers, his warm body finding Rafael’s easily.

“Don’t leave,” Rafael mumbled, too far asleep to feel any shame or reserve. “Please don’t leave me.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Nick said, and pressed a soft kiss to Rafael’s forehead. “Never was, never will.”


	3. Sinker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I accidentally angsted.

In the end, Nick does leave. They always do. He got shot and Rafael heard the loud crack of the gun echoing in the hallway—running out, too late—but he’s okay, needs crutches and he’s popping pain pills like it’s going out of style, and he leaves anyway.

Rafael overheard the low conversation Olivia and Nick had in the corner, and he didn’t need to hear the words to see how Olivia sighed and looked down, looking like all the world had settled on her eyelashes. For a brief, scalding moment he was incensed— _how dare he tell her before me, how dare he leave—_ and then he noticed that the ice was rattling a little in his glass and that Rollins was busy making moon eyes at Nick over her beer and calmed himself. He was wearing linen, and that shit creased if you so much as breathed too hard in it, so he would take it easy. For now.

It was only an hour or so but it felt like a year. He listened to the rest of the squad chatter, and then set his drink down and sat on the couch in front of Noah, who was playing on the floor with blocks.

“Your dad,” he found himself saying. “Your dad fucked everything up for me real good.” Noah was understandably quiet on the matter. Rafael leant forward, linen be damned. “You’re really lucky to have Olivia in your life, you know that? She’ll—she’ll always be there for you.” At this, Noah looked up, and stared with big, blue eyes. He already had a serious face, for a baby, but he looked particularly solemn in that moment, as though he understood.

Rafael sat back. Too much whiskey. Of course the child couldn’t understand—wouldn’t understand until perhaps it was too late.

Finally, the guests started showing themselves out, and Rafael hovered, asking Olivia if she needed help, but she looked at him as though his skin were glass and said, “No,” very firmly. “Thank you.”

So he had no choice but to follow the others down the hallway, out of the building.

It was raining, a fine mist that swathed the city in gray. He peered out into the street and couldn’t discern a cab, a first for New York City.

Of course the city would graciously accommodate his personal crises, because Nick turned up at his shoulder and said, “Need a ride home?”

Rafael considered being petulant, walking to a major intersection and trying to find a cab there just to spite Nick. Just to feel him watch him walk away, with everything still up in the air like an abandoned breakfast. Startled. Late. Cold.

But he turned around and there was a raindrop caught in Nick’s eyebrow. Rafael shoved his hands in his pockets instead of brushing it away. “Sure, why not.”

It was silent except for the rhythm of the window wipers, swish _, swish,_ like a limp. Rafael could feel Nick bracing for a fight, could feel him lining his stomach with iron and his heart with steel. Someone had neglected to let Rafael know that today was his day in the coliseum, and try as he might, he couldn’t fix the wall that Nick had so effectively battered down.

They were silent and damp when Rafael closed the door behind them in his apartment. So different from the first time Nick had been here—no ache in his head, no bright pulse of adrenaline, a spare set of Nick’s clothes in the closet.

Nick brushed past Rafael to sit on the couch, lean his crutches carefully on the armrest. "Sorry," he said. "Standing too long—it's not great."

Rafael looked at him. "I'm sure. Do you want anything?" It was like acting out a play, and he knew the script all too well.

"Just—water." He got the water for Nick and a tumbler of scotch for himself. It was early afternoon, but, fuck it, the gray rain made it seem later. He frowned when Nick took the water gratefully, then downed two large pills at once from an orange prescription bottle. He covered his concern with a sip from his glass, and then sat carefully on the couch next to Nick, consciously not touching any part of him.  

Nick closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, letting the pills settle. Then he stared straight ahead. "Rafi—"

"Don't call me that," Rafael murmured into his scotch.

"Rafi," Nick repeated. Stubborn ass. "I—I didn't mean for it to be this way."

"Well, I did assume that getting shot wasn't in your five-year plan."

"No," Nick said. "No, it wasn't. It's...it's really the end of the road for me."

"Well, you don't..."

"I'm not going to be a desk cop, Rafi," Nick said. "I'm not gonna sit behind a desk and get fat and forget what it's like on the street. People need help, and someone else—someone better, someone without a gimp leg—someone who isn't broken—" He cut himself off with a suspiciously harsh sigh.

Rafael put his tumbler down on the coffee table, then turned, finally, to look at Nick. "You're injured. You'll heal."

Nick grimaced down at his bandaged leg. "It's never going to be the same."

"No, it isn't," he echoed.

"So, I...I…what do I have left? I need my—my family, I need..."

Rafael couldn't help himself; he snorted.

"What?"

"You have a kid here, too," he said. "Not to mention your friends, and—and someone who could. Who could be there."

Nick regarded Rafael for a long moment. Then he raised his left hand, slowly, a slight tremor, and brushed the side of Rafael's face. He touched his cheek with the back of his hand, swept his hair off his forehead, swept a thumb under his eye. He dropped his hand to cradle Rafael's stiff jaw.

"I know," he said, and his voice sounded even more ragged than before. "I know, and I..."

"And you're still leaving."

"Yeah." Rafael felt the hand on his face tense for a moment. "Yeah, I have to."

"Have to."

"Yeah, Rafi, have to." Nick dropped his hand. "This city—living here will only remind me of the things I've lost, the things I can't have anymore."

"You still have plenty. It's a matter of perspective," Rafael said briskly. "You're not just a cop."

"But you’ll always be a lawyer," Nick said. "You're going to want to keep going, and believe me, you will, I know you'll make it, but it's not going to be with me around."

"Why not?"

"Because."

"Poor reasoning, Detective."

"That's the thing. I'm not a detective anymore, Counselor."

"Maybe you turned in your badge," Rafel said. "But you'll never stop being a detective. You'll never stop looking."

Nick laughed bitterly. "For what? The next serial rapist, abusive husband?"

"The truth," Rafael said, and it was a knife. "You'll never stop looking for the truth, because that's who you are. That's who you'll always be. You'll always have been good enough—you're not broken—Jesus, Amaro, are you going to cry?"

Nick had leant into Rafael, tucking his head in the pocket between his jaw and his neck. Rafael took the weight, settled back to hold him. He could smell the salt of the tears, felt the drops darken the lapel of the suit. " _Entiendo, querido_ ," he said softly. "I'd probably want to get out of here too.

“Asking you to stay isn’t going to get me, or you, anywhere. I just want to let you know that you—you’ll be missed, but it’s your decision, and you don’t need anyone stirring shit up just because—just for selfish reasons. So, go, Nick. And don’t…don't worry about us. Me.”

Nick sat up and looked him steadily in the eye.

“I’m serious, leave it all behind, you deserve—”

And then Nick kissed him, tender and slow and drawn out, like honey dripping off a spoon. “You drink too much coffee,” Nick panted when they parted. “And you work too much, and I know that sometimes you sneak a cigarette or seven. And you’re a fucking prosecutor in Manhattan, and you’re too smart for your own good. Of _course_ I’m going to worry about you.”

Rafael laughed, perhaps his first real smile all day.

Nick closed his eyes, leaned into Rafael’s arms. “I love it when you smile,” he said. “Actually, I—”

“Don’t,” Rafael said sharply. “Just—don’t, Nick. You and I both know it’s not true, and it’s just—too complicated.”

“Oh, so you read minds now, too?”

“No, Nick,” he said with a sad smile. “I just know that this isn’t how it happens for me. This isn’t the time.”

“Can you pencil me in for ten o’clock, reason for meeting: “Declaration of—”

“I said, don’t say it,” Rafael said through gritted teeth. “Fuck, Nick. Why do you _insist_ on difficulty.”

“Why do you insist on simplicity?” Nick nuzzled against his neck. “It _is_ complicated, maybe it _is_ how it happens for Rafael Barba.”

“You’re not going to stay just because you say it.”

Nick paused, dropped a kiss to the ridge of collarbone peeking out from behind the spread shirt collar. “No.”

“Seems clear-cut to me.”

Nick sighed, warm air blowing across his chest. “I’m sorry. I know. I mean, I should know. Better. It’s just, you’re here, and you’re—”

“Cut the shit, Nick—”

“ _Beautiful_ , you fucking asshole.” Nick sat back up, glaring at him. “You’re beautiful,” he said more softly. “I’ve learned so much from being with you—”

At that, Rafael barked out a laugh and stood up with his scotch abruptly. “I’m sure you could’ve found your prostate on your own, but thanks.”

“Fuck you.” Nick stood up too, wobbly at first until he picked up his crutches. “So I’m shitty at saying goodbye, Rafi. That doesn’t mean it didn’t mean anything.”

The scotch was a slow burn down his throat. “I’m worse.” It came out hoarse, so he cleared his throat. “I’m worse,” he said, turning to look at Nick. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to do this gracefully.”

“You were doing okay.” Nick’s smile was soft and giving, and goddamn if his chest cavity wasn’t still wide open. He needed to get that fixed, but Rafael stood close to him to cover it up in the meantime, looped his arms around Nick’s neck.

"California will be beautiful. Seeing your daughter grow up will be beautiful," Rafael said, fingers toying with Nick's hair. "There won't be anything else like it."

“I lost everything.” The whisper was harsh, low, almost subconscious. “It was all going too well.”

And Rafael felt the unforgiving bitter ice in his chest more acutely than ever, even as it began to melt. He held Nick closer to him instead of saying anything.

“I’m sorry,” Nick whispered. It was barely audible.

“You—” Rafael paused for a second, just to ruminate on whether he meant what he was about to say, then decided it didn’t matter. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I understand. I can’t imagine if I couldn’t practice anymore, or if I were relegated to paperwork. In fact, that thought actively nauseates me.”

A weak chuckle from Nick.

“I fully realize the irony of this, but I’m going to be straight with you here,” Rafael continued. “I don’t want you to go. I like you, a lot, which you know is nothing short of a miracle—”

“Because you’re a judgmental prick—”

“—because most people are idiots, and I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to have to start over when I already have…I already have the most wonderful man I could ask for.”

Ugh, feelings. Uncalled for, Barba, he reprimanded himself.

“Nonetheless.” He breathed deeply. “I respect your decision. I understand why you want to move out there, and…and maybe it’s time. For you. I just wish—”

He just looked up at Nick, and his body was warm and solid and comfortable and safe, shattered leg be damned.

“You gonna cry, Barba?” Nick teased. But then his voice was small. “I know. Don’t we all wish.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

There was a long silence in which they breathe each other’s air, as though each particle contained a memory. Suddenly, Rafael got the urge to scream— _Stay, stay here, stay with me—_ but reality presented herself in sharp relief when Nick cleared his throat.

“Anyway, the movers are coming early, I should—”

“Yeah, sure—” Rafael rushed to open the door for him. “You’ll be okay?”

Nick’s smile was still radiant. “Yeah.”

“I meant going downstairs.”

“Yeah.” But they stood awkwardly in the doorway for another moment. Rafael let himself look at Nick, really look. Dark eyes, the suggestion of crows’ feet, clean-shaven, the intensity of him still coming off in waves.

He drew in a sharp breath as Nick leant forward, pressed his lips to Rafael’s cheek, eyelid, his forehead. “I will miss you.”

Rafael could only nod. “Go,” he said. “Go home.”

And for once, he and Nick understood each other—Nick flashed him a smile over his shoulder as he went down the hallway, and Rafael didn’t close the door until Nick was in the elevator and he could hear the elevator chime, down, down, down, and out into the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like the depth of what Nick lost in the shooting wasn't really explored—not that they had a lot of time, necessarily, but I could sympathize with feeling like he'd lost everything, even though on the surface, it just seemed like a job. Thanks for reading.


End file.
